Yesterday was my 42nd birthday.
My kids were nice and quiet so I slept late, and then I treated us all to a nice milkshake at Steers on the corner. That was my party, really
I almost never treat myself to my favourite peanut butter milkshake, so it was nice.
Then I went off to the library alone, as another treat I rarely allow myself, especially since starting homeschool.
I thought I’d work on marketing my book and maybe blog a bit, but the wifi wasn’t working, and the librarians were having a fat social chat and I couldn’t bear it, so I walked to the Spur on the next block, to treat myself to a modest little meal and use THEIR wifi, but alas it didn’t work there either!
I’d agreed to be home by 2.30pm to be with Jordan, so that Chantelle could go visit her boyfriend for a few hours before I went to work, and after a nice nap, I waited for my usual bus at 6pm. I got a bit nervous when it was late because I had to be at my next bus stop at 6.15pm for the last bus to the club/brothel.
It came at about 6.05pm which was still fine but then I alighted at a stop too soon and ended up having to jog to my next stop, in my black slip-slops, sweating up my little black and white sort-of paisley “skater dress” but at least I made it in time and saved myself a bundle in transport. An Uber to work on a Friday would’ve cost R70-R140, but my two busses there only come to R8!!!
I feel so smug saving all that, just because I’m willing to look poor.
People are amazed when I tell them how cheap it is.
When I get to the club, it only takes me 15-20 minutes to transform myself into Mia, the classy working girl, and I went to go say hello and check in a bit with Marsha, the ball-breaking manageress who I consider to be my friend.
I told her that it was my birthday but to keep it quiet as I didn’t want to be forced to drink shooters and get fucked-drunk and vomit which I know many are often forced to do by their peers on the birthday. She so heartily wished me (Afrikaans ladies are so nice about birthdays) and a few minutes later, handed me a classy looking bottle of JC Le Roux faux champagne, along with a hug, on behalf of the club. I felt really appreciated.
I spotted Walter, one of nice guys I chat to, that just comes in for a few drinks, and we shared three “Brandy Specials” (two double brandy & Cokes for the price of one) and a “Jager-Bomb” (a shot of Jagermeister placed in a tumbler witha bit of of Red Bull) and had a great chat with plenty of laughs.
I know Walter smokes and I so badly wanted a crumb of weed for when I got home, seeing as though it was my birthday, and I felt so, so blessed when he magnanimously said he’d give me “a nugget of goodness” but when he went out to his car to get it, he didn’t come back.
I was hurt as well as sorely disappointed because we’d really connected, and even agreed to be platonic friends, and hang out in normal life, yet he never took my number. He just left. Dropping me like that. Knowing it was my birthday. I really didn’t see it coming.
So I wasn’t feeling very joyful when a huge bellied moustached Afrikaner approached me, telling me he recognized me as a fellow xxxxx Primary School parent from years ago; that he’d always fancied me and now really wanted to book me.
I felt stalked and also had zero desire to go to bed with him, so I declined, telling him it felt too weird for me. He accepted my decline with poise, but then sat watching me, and after about 20 minutes, seeing that I was getting no other interest (it was very quiet again), he came and tried again. He was practically smirking, so I could tell he was quite sure he would now get his way, as I must need money and he has money, and that really irritated me, especially in my inebriated state, so I told him clearly I was not desperate (“ek’s nie geld-befok nie”) and was really not interested. Again, he accepted my decline rather well, but left the club immediately.
Then Martin, the sexy tik(crystal meth) addict (see my post Father and son in the brothel), arrived looking very buff and tanned and extremely confident and so, so smug.
Throughout December, we’d had quite a few awesome hours together and eventually he’d asked me out on a date
but then, almost immediately, he stopped texting me, putting a photo of him and his long-suffering third wife as his profile pic with the status “Ek is lief vir jou, my bok” (I love you, my buck, in Afrikaans) and I’d immediately recognised it as emotional abuse and deleted his number without another thought.
I was willing to overlook that last night, as months had passed and I was hoping for a nice long booking($$$)of great sex and laughs for my birthday, but when he played hard-to-get, chatting up a skinny young blonde instead, I decided I was done with him for good.
It was the last abuse I was willing to take from him.
When he saw how it was not working and I wasn’t running after him, he came to me (I knew he would, because I’m very, very good and I know he’s a huge fan of my -ahem- work), and offered to book me, IF I could arrange drugs for him. That was the absolute last straw and I told him quite matter-of-factly to go fuck himself.
First he laughed it off but when I just as matter-of-factly told him to shove his money up his arse, and that I never cared to see him again in my life, he could tell I was quite serious, and he quickly stepped away from me. Boy, was he shocked. I could see how the rejection knocked the cockiness right out of him as he then went from girl to girl desperately trying to arrange drugs.
I didn’t care that I hadn’t made any money.
I get a kick out of eschewing their money to be true to myself.
I went home shortly afterwards.
I didn’t realise how hard the cheap brandy and Coke had hit me, until later in bed at home, when I coudn’t sleep, and lay tossing and turning, cringing as I kept reliving my tipsy, loose-lipped blabbing so much of my personal stuff to Marsha.
God, how I was craving a puff of weed!
I took two muscle relaxants and managed to fall asleep.
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